Chuck Palahniuk - Damned

And, I warn the cancer lady, don't expect any guidance or mentoring from the demons. Not unless you're palming them a constant supply of Chick-O-Sticks and Heath bars. The demonic bureaucracy, they might pretend to shuffle some papers in an officious manner, then promise to review your file, but their attitude is: Well, you're in Hell, so you must've done something . In that way, Hell is awfully passive-aggressive. As is earth. As is my mother.

If you believe Leonard, this is how Hell breaks people down—by permitting them to act out to greater and greater extremes, becoming vicious caricatures of themselves, earning fewer and fewer rewards, until they finally realize their folly. Perhaps, I muse over the telephone, that is the one effective lesson which one learns in Hell.

Depending on her mood, Judy Garland can still be more frightening than any demon or devil you might run across.

Sorry. I have not actually seen Judy Garland. Or Jackie O. Forgive me my small lie. After all, I am in Hell.

In a worst-case scenario, I tell the woman, if the Big C does kill her and she ends up in the Pit, she needs to look me up. I'm Maddy Spencer, phone bank number 3,717,021, position twelve. I'm four-foot-nine, wear eyeglasses, and sport the way-coolest new silver, ankle-strap high heels anyone has ever seen.

The phone bank where I work is located at Hell headquarters, I instruct the dying woman. You just go past the Great Ocean of Wasted Sperm. Hang a left at the gushing River of Steaming-hot Vomit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Babette headed my way. In closing, I wish the cancer lady good luck with her chemo, and warn her not to smoke too much spliff for the nausea, since reefer is no doubt what got me express-mailed to my personal forever in the fiery pit. Before ending the call I say, "Now remember, ask for Madison Spencer. Everybody knows me and vice versa. I'll show you the ropes."

Just as Babette steps up beside me, I say, "Bye," and end the phone call.

Already the autodialer has another telephone ringing within my headset. On the filthy little screen reads a number with a Sioux Falls area code, where the window of dinnertime must just now be opening. In this fashion, we begin our shift by annoying people in Great Britain, then the Eastern United States, then the Midwest, the West Coast, etc.

Standing beside me, Babette says, "Hey."

Covering the mouthpiece of my headset, cupping one hand over it, I say, "Hey," in return. I mouth the words, Thanks for the shoes... .

Babette winks, saying, "No biggie." She folds her arms across her chest, leans back a smidgen, peering at me, and says, "I'm thinking maybe we should change your hair." Squinting, Babette says, "I'm thinking, maybe—bangs."

At merely the idea—bangs!—my butt's already bouncing little bounces in the seat of my chair. Within my earpiece, a voice answers the call, "Hello?" The voice sounds muffled and garbled with a mouthful of partially masticated dinner food.

To Babette, I nod my head enthusiastically. Into the phone, I say, "We're conducting a consumer survey to track purchase patterns for common household items... ."

Babette lifts her hand, taps the wrist with the index finger of her opposite hand, and mouths, What's the time?

In response, I mouth, August.

And Babette shrugs and walks away.

Over the next few hours, I run across an elderly man dying of kidney failure. A middle-aged woman apparently losing her battle against lupus. We talk for an hour, easy. I meet another man who's alone, trapped in a cheap apartment, dying of congestive heart failure. I meet a girl about my same age, thirteen, who's dying from AIDS. This last one, her name is Emily. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.

All of these dying folks, I pitch them on relaxing, not being too attached to their lives, and not ruling out the possibility of relocating to Hell. No, it's not fair, but only the late-stage folks will allow me to harass them with thirty or forty questions, they're so strung-out from their treatments or they're so alone and frightened.

The AIDS girl, Emily, won't believe me at first. Either about being her same age or about being dead. Emily's been kept out of school since her immune system crashed, and she's so far gone that she's no longer even worried about flunking seventh grade. In response, I tell her that I'm dating River Phoenix. And, if she can hurry up, quick, and die, word is that Heath Ledger isn't dating anybody at the moment.

Of course, I'm not dating anybody, but what's my punishment for telling a little fib? Am I going to Hell? Ha! It's stunning how having nothing to lose will build your self-confidence.

And, yes, it ought to break my heart, talking to a girl my same age who's stuck alone, dying of AIDS in Canada with both her parents at work, while she watches television and feels weaker every day, but at least Emily's still alive. That alone puts her head and shoulders above me in the pecking order. If anything, it seems to brighten her spirits, meeting someone already dead.

Over the phone, all self-righteous, Emily announces that not only is she still alive, but she has no intention of ending up in Hell.

I ask if she's ever buttered her bread before breaking it? Has she ever used the word ain't ? Has she ever fixed a fallen-down hem with either a safety pin or adhesive tape? Well, I've met mobs of people condemned to eternal hellfire for just those very slipups, so Emily had best not count her chickens before they're hatched. According to Babette's statistics, 100 percent of people who die of AIDS are consigned to Hell. As are all aborted babies. And all people killed by drunk drivers.

And all the people who drowned on the Titanic, rich and poor, they're here roasting away also. Every single soul. To repeat: This is Hell—don't ask for too much logic.

On the phone, Emily coughs. She coughs and coughs. At last, she catches enough breath to say the AIDS isn't her fault. Besides that, she's not going to die, not for a long, long time. She coughs once more, and her coughing ends in sobs, sniffing, and weeping, real way-genuine little-girl boo-hooing.

No, it's not fair, I reply. In reality, within my head, I'm still so excited. Oh, Satan, just imagine it: Me with Bangs!

On the phone it's silent except for the sound of crying. Then, Emily shrieks, "You're lying!"

Into my headset, I say, "You'll see." I tell her to look me up once she arrives. By then I'll probably be Mrs. River Phoenix, but we'll make a bet. Ten Milky Way bars says she's down here with me faster than she can imagine. "Ask anybody for directions," I tell her. "The name's Maddy Spencer," I say, and she needs to make sure and die with ten candy bars in her pocket so we can settle our bet. Ten! Not snack-size!

And, yes, I know the word masticated . It's not as dirty a word as it sounds. But no, I'm not way-totally surprised when this Canadian Emily girl hangs up.

Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. I suspect that my parents had an inkling about my covert plan to seduce Goran. This night, while they're both out, I'll profess my love as vehemently as Scarlett O'Hara throwing herself at Ashley Wilkes in the library of his Twelve Oaks plantation house.

Mere hours prior to the Academy Awards, my parents are fussing over which color of political action ribbon to pin on themselves. Pink, for breast cancer. Yellow, for Bring the Soldiers Home. Green, for climate change— except for my mom's gown arrived looking more orange than crimson, so any symbolic protest against climate change would clash. My mom folds a scrap of red ribbon, holding it against the bodice of her gown. Studying the effect in a mirror, she says, "Do people still get AIDS?" She says, "Don't laugh, but it just seems so... 1989."